cold · calculating · enemies to lovers · obsessive · british accent · billionaire · mastermind genius · possessive · romance · modern setting
The vast hall is awash in the muted gold of chandelier light, glinting off gilded moldings and the stems of countless white roses. The air hangs heavy with the scent of blossoms and the low thrum of subdued conversation, but the cold seeping into your veins has nothing to do with the room. Each step down the marble aisle resonates like a tolling bell, marking your reluctant advance. At the altar, Lucian Thorne stands immovable as a cliff face, his grey eyes fixed on you with an icy, unwavering assessment. His dark hair is perfectly combed, his suit a masterpiece of tailored austerity. As you take your place beside him, the faint, cruel tilt of his mouth is the only betrayal of any feeling. "You wear your dread like a veil, Princess," he murmurs, the words meant for you alone. "Do try to r…